


Hold Tight

by bettysdryer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Military, Mutual Masturbation, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettysdryer/pseuds/bettysdryer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everything the major did was done with the utmost precision, whether it was drilling his regiment or loading his gun or putting on his uniform. He was never, ever relaxed. It should have put John off, but instead he found it interesting, and oddly comforting." An exploration of the possible backstory between John Watson and James Sholto.</p><p>(implied John/Sherlock)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Tight

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a fanfic in ages, but the idea of these two having been in a secret relationship when John was still in Afghanistan just grabbed my imagination and I had to get it out of my system. So... I hope it doesn't suck.
> 
> I've probably gotten a bunch of the military stuff wrong, just fyi.

“Captain John Watson?”

John stood at attention as his new commanding officer approached – he was tall, imposing, with a wide but gaunt face, and a purposeful and forceful stride. He had the look of someone whose face had been set into a permanent stony stare, which was further exacerbated by the icy blue color of his eyes. He could've almost been a statue were it not for the fact that he moved and talked.

“Yes, sir,” John said.

“I'm to be your commanding officer, Captain,” the man said. “Major James Sholto.”

“It's an honor to meet you, sir.”

The major continued to give brief, terse instructions, and John could not help but marvel at how every inch of this man was military. He would not have been at all surprised to learn that he had emerged from the womb wearing fatigues and bearing that same carefully controlled, cold stare.

Major Sholto took his leave after a while, with the customary salute. John watched him go.

_He's got nice eyes._

John blinked. _...Okay, that was an odd thought._ He promptly forgot it.

* * *

There were a number of times when John would try to strike up a casual conversation with the major, only to be rebuffed with short replies. The man never seemed to interact with much of anyone at all, to be honest, except when absolutely necessary. He took his meals alone and kept to himself.

“Sholto ain't nobody's friend, mate,” one of the other captains told him. “No use trying.”

John chewed on the inside of his cheek.

* * *

“Take a look at that,” a private whispered in the mess hall one afternoon. “Major Sholto's graced us with his presence.”

And so he had – far off at a solitary table in the corner of the room, yes, but still, he was there, all formal posture and stiff spine, even when simply eating lunch. He cut his meat into perfectly even pieces, and chewed each bite with exactness. Everything the major did was done with the utmost precision, whether it was drilling his regiment or loading his gun or putting on his uniform. He was never, ever relaxed. It should have put John off, but instead he found it interesting, and oddly comforting. There was something to be said for that kind of discipline.

He felt compelled to go join Sholto, but had the feeling his company would be unwelcome, and instead joined in the laughter for a joke he had not been paying attention to.

* * *

“That Major Sholto,” Captain Stradlater was saying a few weeks later, “he's got a stick up his ass, don't he?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. I think he's kinda charming.”

Stradlater glanced at him, and John cleared his throat and dug into his peas.

* * *

Some of the privates liked to deliberately leave things that John needed on very high shelves that he could not reach. John was about to give up and go get the stool when Sholto, walking past and carrying a box, immediately placed the box on the ground and grabbed the folder John was reaching for.

“Here you go, Watson,” he said, looking down at him.

“Thank you, sir,” said John. He grabbed the folder, and in the second it passed from the major's hand to his, there was an odd shift in his face, and John could have sworn that Sholto had given him a small smile, that his cold eyes had softened slightly, before the moment had passed and he had picked up his box and was making his way down the hallway again.

John gripped the folder tightly in his hand. He suddenly felt very warm.

_Oh. Oh no._

* * *

This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. It was clearly because he hadn't even _seen_ a woman for months now. Right? His libido was getting misdirected. Because he was most definitely _not gay_.

It was weird. Really weird. Weird and awkward and uncomfortable. He would just have to ignore it as best as he could. It wasn't as though anything could actually happen, anyway. Or that he even wanted to, really. He just admired the man, was all, and wires were getting crossed and it was all mixed up with his horniness from not having shagged anyone in a while.

That was it. Definitely nothing else.

* * *

Sholto carefully shed his clothes in the changing room, and John looked, looked and looked, despite not wanting to, yet wanting to, really wanting to, and the air seemed to become filled with something thick and heavy and inescapable, and his nerves tingled, and he could feel himself starting to rise.

_Okay. Maybe not just misplaced frustration, then._

* * *

Harry, tears in her eyes and mascara in dark trails down her face as their parents cursed her name, told her to leave and never come back; Harry nursing a bottle, still not over it even after all this time, after all these years of no contact, neither of them had seen their parents since that night. All of the pain, all of the judgment, all of the hardship, it had taken its toll and torn away at her, though she would never admit it or talk to him about it, and he had never asked because he could see it all anyway, in the empty whiskey glasses strewn about her flat. John turn-heeled when Sholto came down the hallway.

* * *

He was impossible to avoid entirely.

And ever since that day with the folder and the strange warmness and the odd smile, their short conversations turned into slightly longer, slightly more personal ones – or, at least, as personal as you could get when it came to Major James Sholto.

“You like peas, then?” John asked him in the mess hall one evening, after noticing that he ate all his peas first.

“Yes.”

John brought him some of his extra peas the next day, which Sholto accepted with a curious quirk of the eyebrow, and small upward twitch of his lips.

* * *

Sholto was amazing, simply amazing, in combat. John could see that, past his hard exterior, he deeply cared about his men, would die for them, would kill for them. Sometimes he felt like the only one who realized this, and would get incredibly angry when the others soldiers would occasionally disparage him in private. He was usually able to contain himself, but after one particularly nasty and unprovoked comment from Corporal Larson, John snapped –

“Corporal, do not speak that way about your commanding officer! If you do it again, I'll see to it that you're on toilet-cleaning duty for the remainder of your service. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Larson said, looking put out. John gave him a look and cleared his throat before going back to changing his bandages.

* * *

It seemed lately that the major would always have a secret smile for John, one he would never give anyone else, something special reserved just for him.

“You did well today, Captain,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

_DON'T. Don't. Stop._

* * *

John walked past his usual table at breakfast and placed his tray across from Sholto, who looked up from his bacon with some alarm.

“Alright?” John asked.

He swallowed. “Hello, Watson.”

John smiled and sat across from him. They ate their meals in mutual silence.

* * *

It was stupid to think about him this way – _so_ stupid – he couldn't imagine Sholto feeling the same – if he ever tried anything he would probably get discharged – but of course he wasn't going to _try_ anything –

No no no no no. _Have to stop thinking about it. Have to._ Even though he couldn't stay away from him, there was some strange pull he seemed to have that was too difficult to resist, but he just had to stop _thinking_ –

* * *

Alcohol was a hell of a thing. It was also a rare treat for their unit, but after a particularly successful day, absolutely everyone was going out for drinks as an impromptu celebration. The nearest friendly town with a bar was a ways away, but not too far, and John was looking forward to getting pissed with the lads.

Vodka always made John incredibly horny, so it shouldn't have been a surprise that after doing several shots he started to wonder where Major Sholto was, and made the mistake of asking this out loud to no one in particular. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have heard him.

He shouldn't have expected him to come – this was the most anti-social man on the planet they were talking about – and anyway, it was good he wasn't here, because at this level of drunkenness, John wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from “casually” brushing against him, grabbing him by the waist, the strong shoulders, and –

Oh. He _was_ here.

Predictably, in the corner of the room, at a small table by the toilets, with a glass of – was that _water_?

His judgment very much impaired, John decided it was an excellent idea to buy the major a drink. It was the best idea he'd had in his entire life, despite the protests of the still somewhat rational parts of his brain that were whispering, “Oh, no, that is not a good plan, please do not that”, but what good had listening to reason and logic ever done him anyway? The alcohol was coursing through his veins, making him feel like a warm and floating thing that was outside of his body, and Sholto in civilian clothes, God he was so fucking sexy, in a t-shirt, look at his _arms_ , and those cheekbones, Jesus Christ, John stared at him and swung down the last of his beer, licked the liquid from his lips, Sholto lifted his own glass and drank, eyes staring straight ahead and not at John, God it was fucking hot in here, John ordered a scotch (he seemed like a scotch kind of bloke) and stood up and walked over to Sholto, strutted more like, everything else a meaningless blur.

He plopped himself in the seat next to Sholto and extended the drink towards him. “Eh?”

“Hmm?” He looked over, then at the glass in his hand. “Oh – thank you, Watson, but I don't partake.”

“Hold Tight” by Dave Dee et cetera was playing through the tinny speakers as John placed the glass on the table and slowly slid it in front of Major Sholto with his index finger.

“You can just this once though, yeah?”

Sholto considered the drink for a few moments, then John, then the drink again, before taking a small sip.

“You can do better than that!” John shouted, laughing (probably too loud, he really had to tone it down a bit).

He gave one of his small smiles, and took a slightly longer sip.

 _Eh, I'll take it._ “Didn't think I'd see you here!”

“Why?”

“Doesn't seem like your sort of thing.”

“Nothing wrong with a celebration now and again.”

“So you're having fun, then?”

“What?”

“You're having a good time?”

He paused. “I suppose I am now.”

John grinned slowly, and Sholto began to spin his scotch glass in semi-circles, not making eye contact ( _and hold tight, carousel, girl, you'll soon ring my bell_ ).

The world felt a little lopsided, but in a good way, and John carefully placed his hand on Sholto's forearm to steady himself. The pads of his fingers brushed against his skin, the pale blonde hairs, and Sholto's arm jerked slightly but didn't move ( _hold tight, we will fly, swinging low, swinging high_ ), and John's thumb stroked up and down, once, not quickly, and Sholto seemed to freeze in place.

“Come join the rest of us,” John said, softly.

“I, er...” Sholto began looking everywhere except at him, but didn't move his arm away. “I'm fine. But... thank you.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He tilted his head, studying Sholto's micro-expressions, and his body went ahead of his mind as he took his hand off of his arm, and went to grab for the glass that Sholto was still fiddling with. His fingers brushed against his as he took the drink, threw his head back, and downed the rest of it.

Sholto was finally looking at him again. John ran his tongue over his lips, smirked, got up, the music thrumming, and made his way back to the rest of the party.

 _He wants it,_ he thought. _Oh, he definitely wants it._

He was so convinced of this that he was stunned to find, five minutes later, that Sholto had disappeared.

( _You'll never fall each time you call, hold tight, hold tight, hold tight_ )

* * *

It was a short while later that John, now having a miserable time, decided to leave the bar and head back to base.

“C'mon, Watson!” a few of the other soldiers cajoled him, but he simply waved goodbye as he and one of the drivers climbed into a jeep.

It was a long drive back to the camp, giving John lots of time to think and hate himself for being such an idiot. This was why drinking was a bad idea. Sholto was not interested in him like that, he'd been drunk and delusional, and it would be a miracle if he wasn't pulled aside tomorrow for a reprimand of some kind – or worse, discharged.

Or maybe not. He could just blame it on the alcohol, say he hadn't meant anything by it, he just got too...touchy-feely when intoxicated. Or maybe Sholto felt so awkward about the whole thing he wouldn't even bring it up. Or maybe he hadn't even realized what John was trying to do to begin with. It was going to be fine. He had to stop worrying.

“Thanks for the lift,” John said, jumping out, and began his trek back to his tent, the jeep peeling off to the other side of the camp.

It was so strange, how quiet it was. Absolutely no one was around as far as he could tell. The desert sand swirled around his feet, the sound of emptiness ringing in his ears. He still felt a little buzzed, and the cool wind whipped at his cheek.

When he finally reached his tent, he pulled back the flap and walked inside as he began to un-button his shirt – when he nearly leapt backwards and tripped over his own feet.

“M-Major...?!”

Sholto was sitting on the other cot, long legs locked, and his fingers twisted together in his lap. He looked up at John's entrance.

“What – what are you – ?” John stammered, looking rapidly back and forth between the major and the tent flaps, as though he had just witnessed an inexplicable magic trick.

Sholto said nothing, only curled his fingers more tightly around each other and stared at John with an intensity that felt like a thunder bolt and made him look at the ground.

“What are you doing?” Sholto asked, raspy.

John furrowed his brows and jerked his head back up. “I don't know what you mean, sir.”

“Yes you do.” Sholto stood up at his full height, towering over John. He slowly made his way over, and John's heart thumped so fiercely that he was certain Sholto could hear it in the white noise.

“What the hell do you want, Watson?” Despite the choice of words, despite the hard voice, there was no anger in his tone, no accusation, no malice – only the question, and a note of pleading, of wanting...

John let his gaze fall to the floor again, every muscle in his body tensed up, and it was only because he still felt so warm from the vodka, and because of how close the major was, so close they were almost touching, so close that John could feel every breath Sholto was taking as though it was his own, that somehow the following words came dripping out of his mouth.

“I want... to make you... come.”

He looked up, his eyes heavy with lust.

All staidness seemed to fall off of Sholto like a blanket that had been very loosely wrapped around him, and John did not know who initiated it, but suddenly they were kissing, Sholto's arms enveloped around him, John was on his toes, one hand yanking a fistful of Sholto's shirt to bring him closer, the other hand underneath, feeling the muscles on his back, he was kissing a _man_ , this was completely bizarre, it was too much all at once, he could feel Sholto's hard-on against him, was this actually happening or was he having some kind of fever dream, they were on John's cot, they were kissing, it wasn't like kissing a woman, it was weird until it wasn't weird, it was so fucking good that John felt about ready to explode, he put his hand on Sholto's cock through his trousers, Sholto let out a choked gasp in his mouth, Jesus fucking Christ, Sholto was on top of him and riding against his hand, John wrapped his legs around the back of his knees, what was going ON, this was completely mental, but god it felt so good so fucking good Jesus Christ Sholto was moaning and moaning and John groaned and Sholto reached down his pants and grabbed John's cock and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck he was stroking and stroking, faster faster, oh God, every inch of him was on fire, his fingers fumbled and he did the same to Sholto and Sholto pressed his face against his neck and his groan reverberated against his skin what was this what was this what was this it was amazing everything in him was climbing upwards and upwards and his back arched and and and and and

he came

and Sholto came

and it was over

and Sholto kissed him

gentle.

* * *

It was a learning process.

A rattling, nerve-wracking, foreign process, that proceeded with caution. Lots of caution. So much caution, in fact, that they hardly ever shagged at all – or at least, not as often as John would have liked.

But when they did... _God_.

The whole thing was an entirely new experience for John, being with a man, but it clearly wasn't for Sholto, who instructed and helped him every step of the way, something for which John was extremely grateful. For a little while he was very much out of his element, still sort of uncomfortable despite how good it all felt, but over time it became... normal. But not a boring kind of normal, an exciting kind of normal, an exhilarating and heart-stopping kind of normal.

It was also a thrill, keeping it a secret... or at least, it was at first. There he was, Major James Sholto, giving a stern talking-to to the regiment, and John would smirk to himself because no one had any idea that the man who was lecturing them had sucked John's cock the night before.

But the sneaking around and waiting and waiting for opportune moments and having to hide his feelings and stop himself from touching the major in a too-intimate way in public started to take its toll. Not that John was especially eager to go around shouting about it – this was the army, for God's sake – but keeping up a facade at all times could get incredibly exhausting. He didn't know how Sholto seemed to do it so easily. He supposed he'd had years of practice, though.

He slipped, once, during a battle, had grabbed onto Sholto's hand, fingers interlocking with his. The major had hastily jerked his hand away, and it had sliced at John like a knife, though he knew it shouldn't have.

And the more he tried to tell himself it was only a physical outlet for the both of them, that it didn't mean anything, some feeling would crawl up out of nowhere and contradict it, like when he would happen upon Sholto silhouetted against the morning sun, or when he would do some heroic thing like run into a burning building to save a family of three, and then would refuse to take any of the credit or accolades – it was times like those when John couldn't lie to himself.

* * *

He had taken to calling him James when they were alone, but he was always Watson, never John.

* * *

The Land Of Say It.

That was what his sister called it. It had never been a place John was able to get to easily. For some people it was only a quick jog and a sudden leap, but for him it was more like a long, arduous climb up a mountain before taking a giant plunge to the ground, hoping something would be there to break your fall instead of your brain and heart splattered to bits. Because he knew when he _felt_ it, but he was never good at actually _saying_ it. He'd had such a difficult time saying it to his then-girlfriend at university that she'd wound up having to say it for him.

He'd never been all that great at expressing himself, basically.

After one of their (meticulously and painstakingly) planned trysts, John and James lay naked underneath the sheets, sweat clinging to their skin and the sound of the desert night outside.

John made some joke – some careless, casual comment about something – and, to his great shock, James started to _laugh_. A full, hearty, loud laugh, almost like a lion's roar. John, nor anyone else, had ever seen him laugh before. A smile here and there, but never _this_.

 _Did I do that?_ John thought, as James continued to laugh, like some sort of dam inside him had burst. _That was me?_

He became giddy at this, and started laughing too, unable to take his eyes off of James' face, he just looked so _happy_ , _he_ had done that, John Watson had done that, he had broken through layers and layers of ice and had brought this incredible sound into the world, and that glowing grin, and everything seemed brighter, and there was a light inside John's chest, right over his heart, and he knew if there was anytime to go to The Land Of Say It, it was right now, right this moment.

As their giggling subsided, John breathed heavily, chest heaving up and down. He suddenly felt incredibly sick, the words were lodged in his throat, but somehow he managed to sputter out –

“I – uh, well, it's – I, uh...I...love you. Yeah. I love you.”

For a moment, James stared at him in amazement, and for another moment, it looked like he was going to say it back.

But then the wall came slamming down, and he muttered, “Good night, then,” and turned to his side and pulled himself away, yanking the covers over himself, and John stared up at the ceiling of their tent.

* * *

It was what it was.

* * *

“I'm half-expecting you to start giving me detailed battle plans and diagrams the next time you want to fuck me,” John mumbled in his ear while passing him in the lunch queue.

Two weeks later he found a crude drawing tucked into one of his socks, and burst into shocked laughter. Had James actually made a _joke_?

“Scandalous” was the note John left in James' shirt pocket. He saw him open it in the locker room and smile quietly to himself.

They fucked in an abandoned junkyard some miles from base that night, James on all fours, John riding him hard, his fingers splayed across his back, digging in deep.

* * *

There was one time, one memorable time, after a raid where John had nearly gotten held hostage – in a rare moment of passionate abandon, Major James Sholto had thrown all caution to the winds and fucked John in an empty room in the barracks as soon as they had returned.

“You're safe now,” he'd panted afterwards. “You're safe, you're safe here, you're safe with me now.”

Some lonely nights in his cot John would get himself off thinking about it, alone with just his hand underneath the sheets, “you're safe you're safe” a whisper in his ear.

* * *

The other soldiers in their regiment seemed to be warming up more to James, who in turn was coming out of his shell a little more every day.

John couldn't help but feel responsible for this, and would grin inwardly whenever someone would call Sholto “mate”.

* * *

The mask was on the verge of cracking constantly, whenever he would see James get wrangled into a romantic interaction with a woman off the base, his skin would get prickly and his face got warm but he couldn't say anything, and anyway he had to do the same thing, and sometimes he thought he would see James get jealous too but his face was so unreadable so much of the time it was hard to tell.

But his eyes would get so sad, sometimes, when he thought no one was looking.

* * *

“They're sending me back,” John said, shifting in his hospital bed.

“I heard.” A small, pitying smile. “You'll be back to going to work, coming home, every day. Lines at the supermarket. Late night telly.”

“It's what we're supposed to want to go back to, isn't it?”

“Supposed to.”

John smiled sadly back. James, James, of course he understood. “I don't think I can do it.”

His gaze shifted to the floor. “You'll get used to it again, civilian life. Just need some time.”

“No, I...” John nearly swallowed his next words, knew it was pointless to consider, and so stupid to ask, but – “I don't think I can do it... alone.”

James looked up at John's pointed stare. Something flashed in those clear blue eyes, before it was locked down and tucked away where no one could get at it, not even John, not anyone at all.

“You won't be alone,” he said. “You'll have your family. Friends.”

 _What family? What friends?_ “Yeah. You're right. 'Course you are.”

He didn't know what he had expected.

 _He_ certainly wouldn't be leaving, if he had any choice.

* * *

He'd started the letter about a hundred times, before finally settling with –

_Major Sholto –_

_I hope you're well. Civilian life's been boring so far, and my limp hasn't really been helping. They're having me see this therapist for my PTSD. Load of bollocks, it is. Trick cyclist._

_I'm not supposed to be writing to anyone over there, but I wanted to know how everything is. Kinda miss it. A lot, actually. Write back. Please._

_Your doctor,  
Captain John Watson_

He never got a reply.

* * *

It was too difficult, connecting with people now. No one could possibly understand him, could understand what he'd been through and what it meant, how it had changed him. Certainly not his old school friends. Everything and everyone was too boring, compared to his life in the war. He tried, but what was the point? He was just going through the motions, living his grey life in a grey fog. What was the point of it all? Why did he keep going? Because he was a soldier? He wasn't a solider anymore. He wasn't anything at all.

He could barely even stand talking to innocuous Mike Stamford, all this mindless small talk about flats. He wished he could make himself just get up and leave.

“C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?”

“You know, you're the second person to say that to me today.”

 _Huh._ “Who was the first?”


End file.
